He had no time to reflect upon the possible motives of the owner of the strange hybrid for this inexplicable piece, of eccentricity, for at that moment he was disturbed by the sounds of footsteps coming up the flagged drive. Instinctively he moved over to his own car, and was bending over it when a figure appeared in the doorway.
‘Oh – er – hullo! Having a little potter – what?’
The words, uttered in an inoffensively idiotic voice, made Abbershaw glance up to find Albert Campion smiling fatuously in upon him.
‘Hullo!’ said Abbershaw, a little nettled to have his occupation so accurately described. ‘How’s the Ritual going?’
Mr Campion looked a trifle embarrassed.
‘Oh, jogging along, I believe. Two hours’ clean fun, don’t you know.’
‘You seem to be missing yours,’ said Abbershaw pointedly.
The young man appeared to break out into a sort of Charleston, apparently to hide further embarrassment.
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I got fed up with it in there,’ he said, still hopping up and down in a way Abbershaw found peculiarly irritating. ‘All this running about in the dark with daggers doesn’t seem to me healthy. I don’t like knives, you know – people getting excited and all that. I came out to get away from it all.’
For the first time Abbershaw began to feel a faint sympathy for him.
‘Your car here?’ he remarked casually.
This perfectly obvious question seemed to place Mr Campion still less at ease.
‘Well – er – no. As a matter of fact, it isn’t. To be exact,’ he added in a sudden burst of confidence, ‘I haven’t got one at all. I’ve always liked them, though,’ he continued hastily, ‘nice, useful things. I’ve always thought that. Get you where you want to go, you know. Better than a horse.’
Abbershaw stared at him. He considered that the man was either a lunatic or drunk, and as he disliked both alternatives he suggested stiffly that they should return to the house. The young man did not greet the proposal with enthusiasm, but Abbershaw, who was a determined little man when roused, dragged him back to the side door through which he had come, without further ado.
As soon as they entered the great grey corridor and the faintly dank musty breath of the house came to meet them, it became evident that something had happened. There was a sound of many feet, echoing voices, and at the far end of the passage a light flickered and passed.
‘Someone kicking up a row over the forfeit, what!’ The idiotic voice of Albert Campion at his ear jarred upon Abbershaw strangely.
‘We’ll see,’ he said, and there was an underlying note of anxiety in his voice which he could not hide.
A light step sounded close at hand and there was a gleam of silk in the darkness ahead of them.
‘Who’s there?’ said a voice he recognized as Meggie’s.
‘Oh, thank God, it’s you!’ she exclaimed, as he spoke to her.
Mr Albert Campion then did the first intelligent thing Abbershaw had observed in him. He obliterated himself and faded away up the passage, leaving them together.
‘What’s happened?’ Abbershaw spoke apprehensively, as he felt her hand quiver as she caught his arm.
‘Where have you been?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Haven’t you heard? Colonel Coombe had a heart attack right in the middle of the game. Dr Whitby and Mr Gideon have taken him up to his room. It was all very awkward for them, though. There weren’t any lights. When they sounded the gong the servants didn’t come. Apparently there’s only one door leading from their quarters to the rest of the house and that seems to have been locked. They’ve got the candles alight now, though,’ she added, and he noticed that she was oddly breathless.
Abbershaw looked down at her; he wished he could see her face.
‘What’s happening in there now?’ he said. ‘Anything we can do?’
The girl shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. They’re just standing about talking. I heard Wyatt say that the news had come down that it was nothing serious, and he asked us all to go on as if nothing had happened. Apparently the Colonel often gets these attacks …’ She hesitated and made no attempt to move.
Abbershaw felt her trembling by his side, and once again the curious fear which had been lurking at the back of his mind all the evening showed itself to him.
‘Tell me,’ he said, with a sudden intuition that made his voice gentle and comforting in the darkness. ‘What is it?’
She started, and her voice sounded high and out of control.
‘Not – not here. Can’t we get outside? I’m frightened of this house.’ The admission in her tone made his heart leap painfully.
Something had happened, then.
He drew her arm through his.
‘Why, yes, of course we can,’ he said. ‘It’s a fine starlit night; we’ll go on to the grass.’
He led her out on to the roughly cut turf that had once been smooth lawns, and they walked together out of the shadows of the house into a little shrubbery where they were completely hidden from the windows.
‘Now,’ he said, and his voice had unconsciously assumed a protective tone; ‘what is it?’
The girl looked up at him, and he could see her keen, clever face and narrow brown eyes in the faint light.
‘It was horrible in there,’ she whispered. ‘When Colonel Coombe had his attack, I mean. I think Dr Whitby found him. He and Mr Gideon carried him up while the other man – the man with no expression on his face – rang the gong. No one knew what had happened, and there were no lights. Then Mr Gideon came down and said that the Colonel had had a heart attack …’ She stopped and looked steadily at him, and he was horrified to see that she was livid with terror.
‘George,’ she said suddenly, ‘if I told you something would you think I – I was mad?’
‘No, of course not,’ he assured her steadily. ‘What else happened?’
The girl swallowed hard. He saw she was striving to compose herself, and obeying a sudden impulse he slid his arm round her waist, so that she was encircled and supported by it.
‘In the game,’ she said, speaking clearly and steadily as if it were an effort, ‘about five minutes before the gong rang, someone gave me the dagger. I don’t know who it was – I think it was a woman, but I’m not sure. I was standing at the foot of the stone flight of stairs which leads down into the lower hall, when someone brushed past me in the dark and pushed the dagger into my hand. I suddenly felt frightened of it, and I ran down the corridor to find someone I could give it to.’
She paused, and he felt her shudder in his arm.
‘There is a window in the passage,’ she said, ‘and as I passed under it the faint light fell upon the dagger and – don’t think I’m crazy, or dreaming, or imagining something – but I saw the blade was covered with something dark. I touched it, it was sticky. I knew it at once, it was blood!’
‘Blood!’ The full meaning of her words dawned slowly on the man and he stared at her, half-fascinated, half-incredulous.
‘Yes. You must believe me.’ Her voice was agonized and he felt her eyes on his face. ‘I stood there staring at it,’ she went on. ‘At first I thought I was going to faint. I knew I should scream in another moment, and then – quite suddenly and noiselessly – a hand came out of the shadows and took the knife. I was so frightened I felt I was going mad. Then, just when I felt my head was bursting, the gong rang.’
Her voice died away in the silence, and she thrust something into his hand.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘if you don’t believe me. I wiped my hand with it.’
Abbershaw flashed his torch upon the little crumpled scrap in his hand. It was a handerkerchief, a little filmy wisp of a thing of lawn and lace, and on it, clear and unmistakable, was a dull red smear – dry blood.
Chapter IV
Murder
They went slowly back to the house.
Meggie went straight up to her room, and Abbershaw joined the others in the hall.
&nb
sp; The invalid’s corner was empty, chair and all had disappeared.
Wyatt was doing his best to relieve any feeling of constraint amongst his guests, assuring them that his uncle’s heart attacks were by no means infrequent and asking them to forget the incident if they could.
Nobody thought of the dagger. It seemed to have vanished completely. Abbershaw hesitated, wondering if he should mention it, but finally decided not to, and he joined in the half-hearted, fitful conversation.
By common consent everyone went to bed early. A depression had settled over the spirits of the company, and it was well before midnight when once again the great candle-ring was let down from the ceiling and the hall left again in darkness.
Up in his room Abbershaw removed his coat and waistcoat, and, attiring himself in a modestly luxurious dressing-gown, settled down in the armchair before the fire to smoke a last cigarette before going to bed. The apprehension he had felt all along had been by no means lessened by the events of the last hour or so.
He believed Meggie’s story implicitly: she was not the kind of girl to fabricate a story of that sort in any circumstances, and besides the whole atmosphere of the building after he had returned from the garage had been vaguely suggestive and mysterious.
There was something going on in the house that was not ordinary, something that as yet he did not understand, and once again the face of the absurd young man with the horn-rimmed spectacles flashed into his mind and he strove vainly to remember where he had seen it before.
His meditations were cut short by the sound of footsteps in the passage outside, and the next moment there was a discreet tap at his door.
Abbershaw rose and opened it, to discover Michael Prenderby, the young, newly qualified M.D., standing fully dressed in the doorway.
The boy looked worried, and came into the room quickly, shutting the door behind him after he had glanced up and down the corridor outside as if to make certain that he had not been followed.
‘Forgive the melodrama,’ he said, ‘but there’s something darn queer going on in this place. Have a cigarette?’
Abbershaw looked at him shrewdly. The hand that held the cigarette-case out to him was not too steady, and the facetiousness of the tone was belied by the expression of anxiety in his eyes.
Michael Prenderby was a fair, slight young man, with a sense of humour entirely unexpected.
To the casual observer he was an inoffensive, colourless individual, and his extraordinary spirit and strength of character were known only to his friends.
Abbershaw took a cigarette and indicated a chair.
‘Let’s have it,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
Prenderby lit a cigarette and pulled at it vigorously, then he spoke abruptly.
‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘the old bird upstairs is dead.’
Abbershaw’s blue-grey eyes flickered, and the thought which had lurked at the back of his mind ever since Meggie’s story in the garden suddenly grew into a certainty.
‘Dead?’ he said. ‘How do you know?’
‘They told me.’ Prenderby’s pale face flushed slightly. ‘The private medico fellow – Whitby, I think his name is – came up to me just as I was coming to bed; he asked me if I would go up with him and have a look at the old boy.’
He paused awkwardly, and Abbershaw suddenly realized that it was a question of professional etiquette that was embarrassing him.
‘I thought they’d be bound to have got you up there already,’ the boy continued, ‘so I chased up after the fellow and found the Colonel stretched out on the bed, face covered up and all that. Gideon was there too, and as soon as I got up in the room I grasped what it was they wanted me for. Mine was to be the signature on the cremation certificate.’
‘Cremation? They’re in a bit of a hurry, aren’t they?’
Prenderby nodded.
‘That’s what I thought, but Gideon explained that the old boy’s last words were a wish that he should be cremated and the party should continue, so they didn’t want to keep the body in the house a moment longer than was absolutely necessary.’
‘Wanted the party to go on?’ repeated Abbershaw stupidly. ‘Absurd!’
The young doctor leant forward. ‘That’s not all by any means,’ he said. ‘When I found what they wanted, naturally I pointed out that you were the senior man and should be first approached. That seemed to annoy them both. Old Whitby, who was very nervous, I thought, got very up-stage and talked a lot of rot about “Practising M.D.s”, but it was the foreigner who got me into the really unpleasant hole. He pointed out, in that disgustingly sticky voice he has, that I was a guest in the house and could hardly refuse such a simple request. It was all damn cheek, and very awkward, but eventually I decided to rely on your decency to back me up and so …’ He paused.
‘Did you sign?’ Abbershaw said quickly.
Prenderby shook his head. ‘No,’ he said with determination, adding explanatorily: ‘They wouldn’t let me look at the body.’
‘What?’ Abbershaw was startled. Everything was tending in the same direction. The situation was by no means a pleasant one.
‘You refused?’ he said.
‘Rather.’ Prenderby was inclined to be angry. ‘Whitby talked a lot of the usual bilge – trotted out all the good old phrases. By the time he’d finished, the poor old bird on the bed must have been dead about a year and a half according to him. But he kept himself between me and the bed, and when I went to pull the sheet down, Gideon got in my way deliberately. Whitby seemed to take it as a personal insult that I should think even an ordinary examination necessary. And then I’m afraid I lost my temper and walked out.’
He paused, and looked at the older man awkwardly. ‘You see,’ he said, with a sudden burst of confidence, ‘I’ve never signed a cremation certificate in my life, and I didn’t feel like starting on an obviously fishy case. I only took my finals a few months ago, you know.’
‘Oh, quite right, quite right.’ Abbershaw spoke with conviction. ‘I wonder what they’re doing?’
Prenderby grinned.
‘You’ll probably find out,’ he said dryly. ‘They’ll come to you now. They thought I should be easier to manage, but having failed – and since they’re in such a hurry – I should think you were for it. It occurred to me to nip down and warn you.’
‘Good of you. Thanks very much.’ Abbershaw spoke genuinely. ‘It’s a most extraordinary business. Did it look like heart failure?’
Prenderby shrugged his shoulders.
‘My dear fellow, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even see the face. If it was heart failure why shouldn’t I examine him? It’s more than fishy, you know, Abbershaw. Do you think we ought to do anything?’
‘No. That is, not at the moment.’ George Abbershaw’s round and chubby face had suddenly taken an on expression which immediately altered its entire character. His mouth was firm and decided, and there was confidence in his eyes. In an instant he had become the man of authority, eminently capable of dealing with any situation that might arise.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘if you’ve just left them they’ll be round for me any moment. You’d better get out now, so that they don’t find us together. You see,’ he went on quickly, ‘we don’t want a row here, with women about and that sort of thing; besides, we couldn’t do anything if they turned savage. As soon as I get to town I can trot along and see old Deadwood at the Yard and get everything looked into without much fuss. That is, of course, once I’ve satisfied myself that there is something tangible to go upon. So if they press me for that signature I think I shall give it ’em. You see, I can arrange an inquiry afterwards if it seems necessary. It’s hardly likely they’ll get the body cremated before we can get on to ’em. I shall go up to town first thing in the morning.’
‘That’s the stuff,’ said Prenderby with enthusiasm. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll drop down on you afterwards to hear how things have progressed. Hullo!’
He paused, listening. �
��There’s someone coming down the passage now,’ he said. ‘Look here, if it’s all the same to you I’ll continue the melodrama and get into that press.’
He slipped into the big wardrobe at the far end of the room and closed the carved door behind him just as the footsteps paused in the passage outside and someone knocked.
On opening the door, Abbershaw found, as he had expected, Dr Whitby on the threshold. The man was in a pitiable state of nerves. His thin grey hair was damp and limp upon his forehead, and his hands twitched visibly.
‘Dr Abbershaw,’ he began, ‘I am sorry to trouble you so late at night, but I wonder if you would do something for us.’
‘My dear sir, of course.’ Abbershaw radiated good humour, and the other man warmed immediately.
‘I think you know,’ he said, ‘I am Colonel Coombe’s private physician. He has been an invalid for some years, as I dare say you are aware. In point of fact, a most unfortunate thing has happened, which although we have known for some time that it must come soon, is none the less a great shock. Colonel Coombe’s seizure this evening has proved fatal.’
Abbershaw’s expression was a masterpiece: his eyebrows rose, his mouth opened.
‘Dear, dear! How very distressing!’ he said with that touch of pomposity which makes a young man look more foolish than anything else. ‘Very distressing,’ he repeated, as if another thought had suddenly struck him. ‘It’ll break up the party, of course.’
Dr Whitby hesitated. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we had hoped not.’
‘Not break up the party?’ exclaimed Abbershaw, looking so profoundly shocked that the other hastened to explain.
‘The deceased was a most eccentric man,’ he murmured confidentially. ‘His last words were a most urgently expressed desire for the party to continue.’
‘A little trying for all concerned,’ Abbershaw commented stiffly.
‘Just so,’ said his visitor. ‘That is really why I came to you. It has always been the Colonel’s wish that he should be cremated immediately after his decease, and, as a matter of fact, all preparations have been made for some time. There is just the formality of the certificate, and I wonder if I might bother you for the necessary signature.’
The Crime at Black Dudley Page 3
